


Soon

by Evil_Little_Dog



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Canon - Manga, Community: dark_fest, Domination, M/M, POV Male Character, POV Second Person, Physical Abuse, Pre-Canon, Prompt Fic, War Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evil_Little_Dog/pseuds/Evil_Little_Dog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  Roy needs to do something to feel better.  Ishbalan War arc. <br/>Disclaimer:  Arakawa would probably hate what I do with her characters.  At least I don't make any money.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soon

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Any fandom, any characters or pairing, the cuts and bruises feel so deserved that it doesn't feel like abuse.

The sun comes up too fucking early, and you pull yourself out of the dubious comfort of your cot. Before you shove your feet into your boots, you shake them, making sure nothing crawled inside while you were sleeping. There are stories you’ve heard, about scorpions and spiders as big as your fist crawling into boots and stinging, about things that crawled up a soldier’s leg, under the uniform and bit, and the soldier losing a limb. Maybe they’re just stories, but you’re not going to lose your foot or leg to some fucking arachnid. 

You drag yourself to the mess tent, hoping you don’t get shot at on the way (secretly hoping you would get shot at, because if you died right now, maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing). You know what you’re doing is wrong, know it from the echoes of your master’s voice rolling around inside your skull, condemning you for being a State Alchemist. Know it from the smell of roasting flesh – human flesh, burning on fires you created with your master’s alchemic research. The men around you, your _troop_ , they don’t care, as long as they stay behind you, they know you’re not going to snap your fingers and burn them up in your flames. They know you’re protecting them, or that’s what they think – you’re just trying to get through the day as fast as you can, so you can return to your bunk and drown yourself in illegal rotgut, or illicit sex, or other things best not spoken of. Ever.

Except during nights when the moon floods your tent, almost as bright as if it was day, and you can’t sleep for the smell that drifts past you, so strong it’s as if you’d just snapped the ignition cloth of your gloves to create the spark you use for your transmutation; a flash of fire leaping from your hands to engulf bodies, roasting them so the stink rises, greasy and smelling like pork. Those nights, you drag yourself out of the tent, creeping through the campsite, hoping that your own men won’t shoot you by mistake (thinking at the same time, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing) as you make your way across the barren ground lit by fires you didn’t start. 

You know you’ll wind up here, outside his tent, knocking lightly on the center post to beg entry. His voice echoes from inside, expectant, almost as if he was waiting for you. “Come in,” he says, and you slip inside, hoping the dim light hides your trembling. 

Kimbley’s eyes glitter, even in the darkness, guiding you to his cot. You stumble closer, licking your lips. Kimbley is watching your every move. Your body aches. The scrape of sand that’s collected in the folds of the uniform; the sunburn that heats your bare skin, both of them rubbing you raw. You aren’t sure if you’re walking or falling and then you’re stopped in front of him, swaying slightly, making him tip his head back to look up at you. 

“What are you here for, Major Mustang?” Kimbley asks, knowing damned well what you want, what you need. 

You know he wants to hear you say it, though, and you lick your lips with your dry tongue. You taste dust and feel how cracked and chapped your lips are. “Make it,” you say, tripping over the words, “make it go away.” You don’t think your voice sounds like you: there’s no bottom to it, nothing deep and strong, just a few words, so lost and tired and weary of it all. 

Kimbley rises, a smooth motion, and you wonder at how he manages to smell _clean_ before he’s embracing you, his mouth sealing on the pulse in your throat, his teeth nipping at your skin, hard enough to bruise. You shudder, your hands falling onto his shoulders to keep from staggering. Kimbley pulls at your jacket, letting it slide off your arms and drop to the floor in a heap before he tugs at your trousers, jerking hard enough to cut into your burgeoning erection. You bite back a moan as his cool fingers slide inside, cupping you, then slipping down to squeeze your balls. This time, you groan, your hips flexing in reaction. 

“Undress, Major,” Kimbley whispers in your ear, and you shudder at his hot breath brushing over your skin. “Undress and get on your knees.”

Lust makes you clumsy but you manage to obey, your naked body bared to Kimbley’s sharp gaze. He strolls around you, somehow making the trip seem to last forever. “Hands behind your head,” he says, and you fumble them up there, locking your fingers together against the back of your skull. “Knees apart.” You follow his instructions, your dick bobbing and lengthening as you bite your lip. You know what’s coming, just not when, and you close your eyes. Your breath comes shallow and fast, and you can hear your pulse in your ears. 

The crack comes sudden and like a shock of cold water across your shoulders – Kimbley’s belt, licking over your skin. You gasp, rocking forward, trying to prepare yourself but he’s behind you, and you don’t know when the next blow will – 

“Ah!” You gasp at the crack and sting, this time across your ass. 

Kimbley is methodical in his strikes, swift as a snake, each welt he raises making some of the poison seem to bleed away. This time, it is a belt crossing your skin; another time, Kimbley might use his hands, or his hair brush, or even his words. 

It’s all right. 

You deserve whatever he gives you, because if you didn’t have this, if you didn’t get this release, you know you’d be seeking that bullet, maybe from your own hand. 

The soft ‘thud’ makes your eyes open, and you see Kimbley’s fallen onto the cot, legs spread, leaning back, watching you. You swallow, and walk closer, still on your knees. Without waiting for his order, you reach for the button on his pants, opening it and pulling the zipper down. His dick is waiting for your touch, hard and eager for your touch. You swallow him down as he grabs your hair, pulling you even closer. 

Equivalent exchange, you think, sucking on Kimbley’s long, thin dick, tasting the bitter pre-come leaking from the tip. He has amazing control; he won’t shift his hips, even though your own are pumping. He barely makes a sound as he comes, though you drink all of it down. 

“Finished, Major?” Kimbley asks, a dark humor in his gaze. 

You mumble an answer you don’t even hear, grabbing for your clothing and dressing. You handle your own dick roughly, as if that will stop the need, as if you won’t jerk off once you get back to your own tent, if you even make it that far. You feel his glittering eyes on you as you slip outside, shivering at the air that now seems so cold. 

You make it back to your tent, falling into your own cot, covering your eyes with your arm. Soon, the sun will be rising, and you’ll march out again, to kill more people. Soon, you’ll crave another round with Kimbley, to try to even out your guilt. 

Soon.


End file.
